She squinted at me. “Now don’t look at me like I just cursed your favorite horse. I just think you’re walking into a jaguar’s den, for all he’s your duke. Be careful.”

I shook myself and grabbed the feather-plumed helmet from the tent-side table. “I will. Don’t worry—” My eyes widened as a thought occurred to me. “Dorna, they’ll recognize Arasgon—”

Dorna waved a hand. “Nothing about this will kick back to you. I dyed his legs; Mithros spelled his eyes. He’s a handsome black stallion right now. Beautiful and larger than most, but nothing special. Borrowed the saddle and kit from the Red Spears. As long as Arasgon keeps his mouth shut and doesn’t go shouting his name to anyone who will listen, he’ll be fine.”

I breathed deep and tried to calm myself. “Thank you.”

Dorna put a hand on my back and shoved me toward the tent opening. “Now be off with you. You’ve a crowd to entertain.”

The day passed quickly.

The tournament started with grand spectacle: knights, contestants, and entertainers all parading through the city before entering the tournament grounds. Joratese filled every stand and rooftop with enough height to see the contests. Enterprising souls rented spaces on sky bridges to those unfortunates who hadn’t managed to find themselves seats in the stands.

The tournament contestants wore riotous colors to proclaim the hues of their sponsors, their homes, and any businesses whose interests they’d been paid to represent. The next week of fighting would decide a great deal: business contracts and commodity prices and even the guilt or innocence of accused criminals. No one in Jorat would do any significant business without first establishing the respective idorrá and thudajé for all involved parties. The most civilized way to establish those parameters was through the contests.

Everyone watched and cheered and drank. Fights broke out both inside and outside the tournament grounds. Jorat’s finest artists had sculpted the lacquered armor worn by the knights into fantastic shapes—jaguars and elephants, monkeys and parrots. Such armor gave way more easily than its metal equivalent, so broken bones often took knights out of the competition.

I had a hard time watching the tournament without remembering Sir Xia Nilos and her squire, dead by Dedreugh’s blade. Or Mereina’s people, choked to death on blue smoke.

But no, that wasn’t relevant here. Atrine was Jorat’s capital. Even if Jorat frowned on magic, every noble had brought their Gatekeepers. Every priest of the Eight attended. No witch could try Senera’s trick without being caught.

So Arasgon and I played with the crowd and pretended to be black-clad jesters while we passed the time. Finally, the evening sun set behind the eastern mountain, and the duke waved his goodbyes to the crowds as his court rose to go inside.